


for what you did to me (what i'll do to you)

by decompdoll



Category: Murderdolls (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Male Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Necromancy, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reunions, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decompdoll/pseuds/decompdoll
Summary: Joey wakes up six feet deep, cold, soaking in his own decomp fluids with no memory of dying.
Relationships: Joey Jordison/Joseph Poole | Wednesday 13, Joey Jordison/Mick Thomson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOOOHOOO BOY. i have no clue what i'm doing, for starters. the ships tagged aren't going to be anything important until we're a few chapters in, and even then they're just kinda there for fun. the real point is that joey is dead and i'm not sure if it still counts as necrophilia if he's up and moving.

Joey woke up with a terrible force.

Everything hurt. It felt like he was being drowned in flame, horrible aching in his bones that made him want to scratch the skin from his arms to shreds for a distraction. That, of course, was born from the assumption that he still had flesh that wouldn't slough off at a mere tug. 

Where did that thought come from?

He seized and attempted to shoot straight up, only to smash his head into something splintering and solid. Joey winced, sucked in a breath of rancid air, and tried to reach up to hold his skull but was stopped at the sides. After a bit of maneuvering, and borderline hyperventilation (which was more than unpleasant, it fucking _reeked_ wherever he was) he managed to get a cool hand on his forehead.

Alright, so, he couldn't see anything. Maybe he'd gone blind. That thought was less terrifying than it should've been. Reasonably a secondary concern when you're trapped in a box, and.

A box. The smell. The fact that he was rolling in what felt like an expensive suit and some foul liquid. Pitch black all around. He elbowed upwards, and knocked into what sounded like wood. He was in a coffin. Presumably underground. Well, that's _shit._

Joey tested the roof of the coffin again, smashed the bluntness of his wrist against it as hard as he could. No dice, but he wasn't sure what he was expecting. Definitely not being buried alive, but that's a given. He sighed, and gagged. 

He'd read about this a while ago. About how you should conserve air, never light a match because it would use up what you need to breath, never hyperventilate, well, too late for that.

Why was he so relaxed? He tried again, using more of his weight and his full arm. The fabric dripped onto his chest and that wasn't the greatest feeling, but he kept going. Jerking upwards and slamming his forearm against what was starting to feel more like a brick wall than wood, pausing to shake the tension off, and giving it another shove.

A murmur of a _cre-eee-ak_ and a groan at his sides was enough encouragement to keep his hopes at least somewhat up, getting a sudden rush of adrenaline that rattled through his core. 

The roof flexed and popped at a few more shoves, almost like when pulling cheap plastic and the point where it bends goes bleach white.

Joey hadn't realized how stiff his limbs were until he tried to bend his legs and had to listen to the sickeningly fleshy crunch when he succeeded, using the little bit of leverage he had to jam his full upper body upward. He pretended to not notice being unable to feel any real pain in his lower half, only focusing on trying to break through the top of coffin.

Obviously, that decision wasn't very well thought out.

Although his position did indeed help breach the wood, what he forgot, or maybe just didn't realize, was that there was at least one ton of soil directly above him. 

It all poured in fast, almost too fast for him to get his arms up and start furiously swiping dirt downwards. Joey kicked frantically and felt what were probably dress shoes slipping over fluids and getting caught under the weight, fuck, fuck, he gulped down what felt like sand instead of air and his throat _burned,_ choking on a dry sob, clawing upwards still, he had to keep going quickly, before the damp soil settled around him and entombed him a second time, so close, so fucking close, he thrashed and one leg finally got straight underneath him, his other foot is caught on something, it rips and he screams, but now all he can taste is dirt and very real, live terror.

Joey forced an arm up as far as it would go, using the other to keep soil out of his mouth and continuing to kick frantically, quickly finding a mostly solid root to push off of. He felt the wood splintering and tearing at the ankle of his slacks, scraping skin off, yeah, he sure as hell felt _that_ now, but it didn't matter so much when he was trying not to drown in clay. Digging upwards, he felt things wispy on his bare wrist, before he finally, _finally_ scraped the surface and tore at dewy grass. 

He couldn't dwell on it yet, but it fucking felt good to get at least a taste of fresh, cold air. If he could get his whole hand out, if he could get his forearm out he could get the rest of it out up to his shoulder, where he could widen it enough to breathe, and he gasped desperately as he forced himself out of the hole. Or at least, from the waist up. Right now he just had to smell something other than the rotting stench underground and spit out dirt as he leaned against the solid wet ground. Flicking over his surroundings by default and seeing the moonlight glisten on the sod was reassuring. At least he wasn't blind. The cloudy blur in his eyes would probably go away soon.

After a few more quick kicks, Joey was dragging himself all the way out and unconsciously slumping against something cool and smooth to check the damage.

Cursing to himself and hissing the whole way, he eventually settled with one leg straight, the other comfortably bent over his thigh.

As expected, his pants were totally shredded from the knee down. He huffed as he peeled the fabric back, and proceeded to choke on his own spit as he glanced over the mangled remains of what used to be his heel. 

_Fuck._

Joey's neck popped and ached when he looked up, around, and back down to his cracked, bluish grey hands. This was a graveyard. He wasn't dreaming, and turning to check what was so cool on his back, he was leaning against a tombstone that read his full name. The blood in his body was still and frozen, reaching up, he felt no heartbeat. Was he dead?


	2. Chapter 2

After wiping the grime off his face, sorting out the knots in his hair (and accidentally ripping out a few chunks of scalp in the process, but that's beside the point), and waiting for the numbness to shift back to his arms, Joey attempted to stand.

He had yet to spot a groundskeeper lurking around, possibly just because his eyes hadn't fully adjusted to the newfound light. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd explain his, _erm-_ consciousness to some poor old guy who probably didn't get paid enough. He was just as curious as the next damn person as to why he was breathing while halfway decomposed.

Using his elbows to prop himself up on the gravestone, Joey staggered like a newborn deer before coming right back down to his knees. After discarding the thought of _if I have to learn how to walk all over again I'm crawling right back in that fucking grave,_ he tried again. The dirt and splinters in his wound stung like all hell and now he'd began to shiver, but this time he stood and only stumbled once. 

Pushing off a tree that felt concerningly close to snapping, Joey made a point to keep his momentum. Kind of like a shark, but instead of dying if he stopped moving, he'd just trip, eat shit, then have to go through the whole process of testing his weight again. He almost felt-- heavier, more lumbering and less fragile. Hopefully he'd get some kind of agility back when his legs started working properly.

It took him long enough to get to the fencing; stumbling around statues that seemed to watch him and struggling to navigate the graves, so long that the moon looked to have swapped sides in the sky when he lifted his head. 

It was almost odd, cartoonish even, how there were no stars and a blindingly bright full moon. Atmospheric. That was so fucking wicked.

What was less cool, was probably the prospect of getting over the chain link he had his fingers through. 

Joey wasn't sure how he'd do this. 

He'd just spent the past few hours learning how to put one foot in front of the other, his arms tensed and relaxed at their own individual will, and his fine motor skills were so screwed that his hand went up over his head ten seconds later than he'd thought to move it.

The occasional car rushed over the road outside, casting beams and off-black shadows over his suit-- it wasn't like he could wave someone down, he looked like, well, _death._ Lumbering around like he came straight out of some B movie. He sighed. 

Feeling increasingly filthy the more he moved, he shakily fell down to his knees, still clinging to the fence dearly. It was somewhat more comfortable to be on all fours, but the thought made him feel ill. If there wasn't a way over, there had to be one under. Or at least, he hoped.

So he began to grope blindly for some kind of gap in the chain or a dent in the earth, giving up his sight for what he could touch and smell that wasn't decay or rain. Since when could he tell that it was going to rain?

Regardless of what Joey witnessed and what he felt, there wasn't any guarantee that he wasn't just having the _worst_ trip of his life. He'd seen people's faces melt off and was utterly convinced that the hotel carpet was going to pull him in like quicksand the last time he tried acid, who's to say that these weren't the effects of some weird street drug? Didn't bath salts make people act like zombies, tripping over themselves like drunkards and try to rip others faces off? He didn't want to rip anybody's face off.

The concept of this all being some fucked up hallucination soothed him somewhat as he crawled around and searched for a way out, all the way until he found a hole ripped through the bottom of a-- _check, locked--_ gate. 

The tear in itself wasn't big enough for him to squeeze through, he was sure of that, but the ground dipped down just a little, giving gently when Joey pressed his hand into it. He sucked in a breath at the prospect of escape.

* * *

After rather _un-gracefully_ dragging himself through the earth and crawling to the road like an injured animal, he was back on unstable feet, shuddering the second his bare skin touched the freezing concrete. It was slightly less irritating that the grass, however.

Joey spun around slowly, taking in his surroundings.

It wasn't Des Moines, that's for sure. He was standing in the middle of a near empty street, towering brick structures at all sides. The graveyard seemed to the only patch of life in a seemingly endless maze of concrete and an unforgiving night sky, only lit by the moonlight and the occasional window in the, what he could assume was an office building, at his left. The yellows and whites reflected in a puddle of oil and rainwater ahead of him.

He sniffled a bit and swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. Once he could find something to drink his mind would hopefully be less foggy. Maybe he could remember just why, and or _how,_ he ended up in the ground.

Joey reluctantly began to slowly move forwards, figuring that if he walked for long enough he would have to find something that made a lick of sense, already stumbling sideways before he could think.

He caught himself with a shoulder into a wall, ankle bent at an angle that it shouldn't be. Right, can't question anything when trying to relearn what it means to get five feet ahead. Focus on steps, one, two, one, two, _one, two..._

Within what was probably around two hours, Joey had managed to take at least six falls and double that of catching himself just in time, and only now he'd began to come across other people.

He found the low chatter to be unbelievably incessant, worse than a fly circling his head with its whiny drone stretching on to oblivion, worse than pretending to ignore the girls mumbling in the halls back in school, worse than the sting on heel. He wasn't sure _why_ he was so bothered by this little of a crowd, he _liked_ crowds, or at least, he thought he did. He used to..?

Eventually, with Joey lost as ever, the sky cracked with sunshine and a familiar grey blue. Familiar on his skin, actually, he was more greyish turquoise than anything.

He slid down to the sidewalk against a storefront at one point or another, simply staring at his hands.

It was gross and shocking by all means, the pink splotches growing wider down his wrists, striped up with welts of various sizes and veins protruding like black wires. No fucking wonder he'd been getting looks of extreme concern and maybe just a little horror. Dressed up in slimy, used-to-be-fancy rags with the complexion of decay in every sense, he didn't even want to see what he looked like in the face.

He didn't even notice the person standing right before him until now, how had they been there? 

He jerked to look up a little too fast, his neck popping in all the worst places as he tried to adjust to the sunlight right in his cloudy eyes.

"Jesus _Christ_ kid," 

Ah. So it was a man. Whoever this was, they had very nice black hair and very well ironed pants.

"You look like hell. Need me to call someone?"

Ah. So it was an angel, actually. They ducked into his line of vision just right, to form what was definitely a perfect halo around their head. Joey blinked, now trying to adjust to the well appreciated shadow they cast over him.

_Assimilating..._

He wasn't that tall, or at least, Joey didn't think he was. Shoulder length, tousled newblack hair, framing a thin masculine face. He had angular eyes and a long nose, along with well groomed facial hair. He was concerned, but it felt... wrong. Like a mocking imitation of someone's sympathy.

The man raised his eyebrows in curiosity, obviously waiting for a response. Joey didn't think he would trust him, but remaining silent felt bad. Dangerous, almost.

Joey tried to make a noise, which came out significantly more whiny and horse than he intended. The man reached a hand out and cocked his head sympathetically.

"Come on man, I'll help you up. You... uh... have a name?"

"Uh,"

Joey didn't move an inch, still trying to get his eyes to fully focus.

It's a wonder that he hadn't had the cops sent on him yet, maybe this guy was a cop, oh fuck, maybe that's why he got the urge to leave, leave, leave, he was up on his feet and immediately attempted to haul ass _away,_ landing on all fours almost comically after getting barely any distance. 

He fought with the gunshot urge to just crawl away because obviously, his body wanted him to, but he didn't exactly need any more reason to get called in. Joey instead rolled and fell onto his back, why was he so fucking _jumpy,_ not even making the effort to meet what he could assume was a gaze of total bewilderment.

Maybe he was just trying to help him, for fuck's sake, and Joey was just being a spazzy little bitch, but by now he didn't really have the option to carry on like he hadn't just seized up and scuttled away before giving this guy his name.

"Man,"

"Uh-- I'm _fine,_ honestly, just a _little_ wacked out, _hah, uh,"_

Joey barely even recognized his own voice, but he didn't just want to sit here on the sidewalk and have people rightfully stare at him like he was a sideshow freak, so he didn't dwell.

Instead, he just got the fuck out of there.

Somehow he had ended up on a street that he almost seemed to know, not quite, but the street name rang a bell deep in the dimmest recesses of his mind. Maybe if he got something to drink he would be able to think better. 

Although by now, he was exhausted, still freezing, terrified, lost as ever and isolated in a sparse crowd. He thought about going to sit by a telephone pole and having a nice, long cry, but he couldn't stand to embarrass himself anymore.

He _had_ to tell someone about this. The only problem was figuring out where the fuck he was and finding a phone to call whoever _(Parents, possibly?)._

Fuck. His parents.

That seemed to pull him out of his haze, the thought of his parents and if they knew, oh god, how long had he been gone? They must be worried. This wasn't home. Who else was worried? Did anyone know? He was in a cemetery, but he wasn't totally ready to come to terms with the thought that he'd actually, truly died quite yet. If he died, he wouldn't be walking around right now. If he died, he wouldn't have had to claw his way out of the grave. There must've been a mistake. 

Joey fought to delve back into that sense of blurred reality he had moments ago, and he fought even harder to get himself to keep walking. A lot of fighting with himself today.

So. Being realistic, this had to be a big city. Taking in the businesses and shopping malls, as well as the fact that only one person had actually stopped him, there was no way this was some little town in the middle of nowhere. 

_God! He knew this place! He knew this place._

Street name. Manchester Ave. He knew where he was, but not _where_ he was. He could just ask someone what state he was in, he was sure this was somewhere in the U.S., but asking somebody would mean showing his ass and letting people think that he was some totally lost maniac, probably drugged out of his gourd with a kill count.

Joey picked up his feet when he walked by now, and intended to keep it that way, even after he lost his balance and ended up knocking into someone who he refused to look at. Mumbling a rough apology, he staggered through the throngs of people until he met a guard railing, keeping him from just walking into the street and ending it for real this time.

God, that'd be pathetic, wouldn't it? A second chance at life, no, he wasn't dead and he never died, but it would be kind of funny if he had done all that work just to make his way right back into the cemetery. He huffed out a dry, weak laugh as he peeled off of the sidewalk and into a smaller, significantly less busy roadway.

Joey tripped over weeds and knee-high, half dead grass as he cut the corner through an empty little plot of land, miraculously managing to stay on his feet and ignore the coagulated blood falling in globs from his heel.

Things looked and felt like shit.

So, he made a compromise with himself.

He would keep walking for five more hours, tops. If he found nothing, nobody, not a phone or a way to contact home, he'd lay down wherever he was and let whatever happens happen. Seems fair enough, the only issue was keeping his motivation.

As he traveled, slowly but surely, he made a point of acknowledging his surroundings the best he could. His head hurt and his eyes stung from the sunlight and he was still dizzy, he could assume that wouldn't go away any time soon, but if he didn't pay attention he just might miss something that jumpstarts his memory.

Houses, houses, two dark haired little kids who squealed and darted back to their front porch the second they laid their eyes on him, more houses, another empty plot with a trespassing sign planted out front, he shook his head and sniffled.

Nothing was coming up. It was almost there, he knew he'd been in this neighborhood before, but he didn't know why. Why he would've been here, who he was with ( _There was no way in hell he'd go through some random street unless someone else brought him there_ ), nothing. He scarcely avoided frustration for a second time.

Amongst the yellows, baby blues and whites, there was one particular house that stuck out like a sore thumb, maybe seven or eight ahead. Joey smiled, faintly, at the sight of pitch black paint and an overgrown lawn. Maybe a vampire lived there or something. That would be _great._ Some bloodsucker probably wouldn't be too shocked to see the undead on his doorstep, asking for a phone call. That's how regular people get kidnapped and sewn to each other. 

Joey snorted. He was so, so out of it.

So out of it, that he didn't even remember his bandmate's, his best friend's home until now.

His breath caught in his throat in realization, stopping right where he was. Fucking, uh, _Wednesday,_ yeah, holy _fuck,_ no _fucking way._

Joey nearly fell over himself when he failed to run the rest of the way, settling on gripping his neighbor's fence for support as he covered the distance in record time. Record time for somebody in the same state as his, at least. 

How fucking lucky was he? This was definitely Wednesday's place. He recognized the missing blinds, the sunbleached band stickers on the car sitting in the driveway, and what looked like his daughter's painting on the rocks surrounding the front stoop. Joey sighed in relief. Sweet, sweet familiarity.

Hopefully, his little girl wouldn't be here today. Joey could remember the situation pretty well, where she'd spend half the week with him and the other half with her mother. They weren't together anymore, so it was the closest they could get to a divorce without having to deal with the courts and paperwork. He didn't want to scare the poor thing. Her father, on the other hand...

After making his way up to the doorstep and catching himself before he tripped over one of the stairs, he was getting better at this, he found himself hesitant to knock. He wasn't sure why. Swallowing whatever it was, Joey banged on the door four times. Like he usually did. Waiting.

There was no response from inside, and after knocking a second time, trying the doorbell that he knew died years ago, he'd decided to take an alternative approach. The alternative approach, being the act of trampling and getting stuck in a rosebush on the left side of the house while nearly putting his fist through what he believed to be the kitchen window.

"Up, fuck, ow... Wednesday! Hey!" 

He clung to the windowsill, looking in to see the man he hadn't realized how much he missed. It felt like he hadn't gotten a look at him in years. He looked like shit, honestly.

Through tinted glass and near translucent curtains, Joey watched him jump at the noise, nearly dropping his guitar onto the tile and knocking over the almost empty bottle of jack on the dinning table. He whipped around as fast as it looked like he could, obviously intoxicated and disoriented. He stared with wide eyes at the wrong window.

"Fuckhead. I'm over here, hey, over-- over here, c'mon,"

Wednesday turned, gripping the neck tightly, scanning over in his general direction until their eyes met, and he froze like a deer in headlights. Joey wasn't too amused.

"Wednesday! Are you deaf? Look, unlock the goddamn door, it's cold as shit out here, Wednesday look,"

Wednesday blinked, not moving an inch until Joey banged on the window against, when his shoulders tensed and he shook his head.

"You're not, nah, n-- you're not fuckin' real, I can't believe I'm hallucinating now--"

His voice was muffled by the layer of glass between them, but he could make out enough to get a little irritated. He didn't drag his ass this far just to get dismissed as a figment of Weds' imagination.

"Oh yeah, well I'll show what's fuckin' real if you unlock the door, I'm tired, just let me inside,"

Joey mocked, while attempting to twist his ankle out of a particularly thorny spot. He was still standing in the roses. 

Reluctantly, Wednesday stood, before slowly walking to the sink in front of his window and holding on to the edge. He stared him down, visibly in a state of disbelief as he tried to find some kind of flaw in Joey's reality.

"Listen. Even if you are hallucinating-- which you aren't, I'm very much real-- nobody's gonna give a shit if you just open your door and let me in. It's your house. You could talk to your floor for hours and nobody would know." 

They watched each other for a bit, with Joey significantly less interested in a makeshift staring contest, but obliged either way. Whatever it took to convince him that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Fuck." Wednesday said, before swallowing and glancing away. "Alright. Alright. I'll head out and get you."

Within less than five minutes, Joey was staggering awkwardly against Weds' chest with his nails peeling back as he dug them into his shoulders for stability. Wednesday didn't seem too sure himself, having to take a step back to steady himself as he took on a weight he wasn't totally convinced existed.

"Gotcha, gotcha, c'mon dude, you're freezing."

"Yeah, no shit. 'S what I've been trying to tell you, but _o-oh noo, you're not re-ea-al_ ," 

As expected, Joey was a tad bitter.

* * *

Good fucking god.

Joey leaned in for a better look at the man, the corpse in the mirror that couldn't be him. 

With his skin drawn taunt and grey, splotches of blue and green made up for the only color on him. His eyes had gone a dull, glassy gray and seemed to be covered by some kind of milky film, electric indigo capillaries worming toward his iris and faintly over his stiff complexion.

His hair fell limply over his shoulders, thin and dead and missing a few clumps from the sides. He could deal with looking ghastly in the face and rotting everywhere else, but he couldn't quite handle lost hair. It didn't shine underneath the lights, but his eyes sure did. He wouldn't let himself cry over this, but there wasn't any stopping the burning in his throat or how his breath hitched up when he reached to run his fingers through the tips and came back with enough material for a cheap wig.

Slowly, Joey moved to undo his tie, wincing at himself when his fingers met something cool, damp and globule beneath the fabric. He didn't even want to know.

He spent as little time as possible stripping from the belt up, numb to the sickening _splurch_ that his clothes made when they hit the tile. Hesitating, Joey returned to the mirror, and set his hands on the sink as he stared the unfamiliar creature down.

Things weren't looking any better below the neck.

He had a crudely stitched Y incision stretching over most of his abdomen, blackened cord-like veins straining right below the delicate skin on his upper arms to prove himself wrong; he most definitely had not been knocked out and accidentally buried. He should be dead. He went through an autopsy where they fucking- god, they went through his fucking guts, he felt filthy and defiled and it was so medical, so wrong.

This was so, so wrong.

The bones that used to be only somewhat visible were now full exposed, outlined in a tense, ill white. He moved to scratch at his collarbone, but his nails went through the flesh as if it was made of tissue paper.

It's not like Joey felt it; if it weren't for the slight pressure and a visual, he wouldn't have realized that he now had exposed something pink. He blinked.

“Uh… Wednesday? I kinda fucked up,”

He shouted into the hall, listening to heels quickly clicking against hardwood as he ducked back into the bathroom.

Jeez. If he couldn't even get at an itch without flaying himself, how was he supposed to bathe? The longer he stuck around like this, the more filthy he felt. It felt like the skin he wore wasn't his. It crawled and tingled and almost hurt just to acknowledge, not even mentioned how his bones felt… hollow? He felt breakable. Fragile. He hated it.

He'd started to shake when he moved to unbuckle his belt, right as Wednesday appeared in the doorway. He heard him suck in a sharp, unnerved breath as he presumably looked Joey over from where he stood. He glanced up, feeling an inordinate sense of shame in his partial nudity. This wasn't anything new, but now that he was rotting shell of himself, things were... different. No shit.

"Look, Wednesday, you don't have to--"

"No, no, it's fine. You're fine."

He was cut off and surprised by how shaky his voice sounded, was he crying? Joey knitted his eyebrows and looked to see him gnawing on his knuckle at the sight, eyes damp and bloodshot. It made his chest ache.

Wednesday made a pitiful little noise as he lifted his arm, motioning for Joey to take the fresh clothes he was holding. He paid them little mind, just dropping them onto the sink and keeping his eyes on him.

"Y'know, I don't..."

"I just missed you so much. I can't fucking believe it. You're-- god, oh my god,"

He wiped his nose on his sleeve as he turned his focus to the floor, choking on something akin to a whimper when Joey approached him and got an arm around his waist.

"I never thought I'd see you again, man. You've got no idea what it did to me, no idea, hurt so bad, I didn't even get to say bye, _why_ the fuck did _you, why-- fuck,"_

His words devolved into short, wet sobs and curses, crouching over and nodding his head into Joey's shoulder. Joey had no idea what he was going on about, no idea what _it_ was, was he upset with him for dying? Wasn't the time for questioning. 

There's no right way to pet someone's dreads, but he was gonna try anyways. Joey let Wednesday slump against him, settling with both arms around him and his cheek pressed to the side of his head. He let him babble on and beg for nobody in particular until his eyes went dry, now standing silent, still aside from the persistent trembling.

"You're real, you're real... I'm so glad you're back, dude," 

He murmured, pulling back to cup his face and kiss his forehead. Which was followed by gagging and spitting into the sink. Joey snorted.

"I don't know what I expected with that."

Wednesday said matter-of-factly, wiping his mouth.

Joey proceeded to call him a moron and flick his forehead.

"Alright, let's get you cleaned up. You smell like, uh, death."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case it isn't where you came from, my tumblr is @lazerlustt :D
> 
> for reference;  
> \- this takes place in 2004/2005ish. i was hoping that i wouldn't need to clarify and let my writing speak for itself, but i think it's best that i express this here  
> \- i heavily imply that trent, if you couldn't tell, looks like his 1997 self. don't ask why, just felt right.  
> \- some bands exist. some don't, one of those being NIN.  
> \- if you're curious why/how joey is walking around after his muscles have most likely long atrophied, you'll see. just waaay further in the fic.  
> that's all i had to say! pls comment if you liked it, i love validation.


	3. Chapter 3

"Why are we doing this again?" 

"So that, y'know,"

Wednesday paused to tuck hair away from Joey's face after watching him shake his head uncomfortably.

"When you grab shit, your skin doesn't fuckin'-- I don't know, slide off like it did in the bathroom. I don't think you can get infections like this, but I don't want goo all over the furniture."

"Gross. It's not like I could hold anything in the first place when I can't move my fingers."

Joey leaned back onto his free hand, watching Wednesday wrap the raw skin tight with gauze, only mildly interested. He was still caught up in an odd, dream-like headspace, his body damp despite the fresh clothes and the towel over his shoulders. Maybe that was permanent.

The concept, and fact, apparently, of his flesh falling off the bone seemed more like a minor inconvenience than anything. Joey was too busy trying to think up a reasonable explanation for his condition and consciousness, entertaining the idea of getting a brain-scan to see just how he was having it in the first place. 

"Fucking-- scissors, I need scissors. Don't move."

Wednesday climbed up to his feet, not waiting for a response before he hurried into the kitchen and Joey listened to him rooting around the drawers. 

It was like a portion of his sight had been traded in for beyond amplified hearing, along with this damned sense of smell. In fact, he could smell one of his cats headed towards the living room where he sat, almost fifteen minutes ago before she seemed to stop in her tracks and disappeared further down the hallway.

She was back though, Joey noticed, right before she walked into his line of sight. She looked on-edge, her ears turned away as she watched him warily. Joey tilted his head curiously, tapping the ground beside him in hopes to beckon her closer. He missed cats.

She came a little bit nearer for that, her steps hesitant and light as if he were some kind of threat. This was Joan, right? Joan usually liked him.

Two, three..

Joey apparently got too excited and leaned forward too fast, earning himself a hard scratch to the cheek and a hiss as she scurried back, shockingly skittish.

"Ow! Jesus Christ man, what's your fucking problem?"

Joey yelped, cupping his face and wincing as he rocked back. Wednesday clattered from the kitchen.

"You, hey-- what'd you do to her?"

"Nothing! She just got me for no reason, dude, look,"

He appeared at Joey's side all of a sudden, (not sure how he missed that), peering down at the hair thin claw marks in Joey's cheek, to Joan, who sat indifferently in the doorframe across from them. She licked her paw, before sputtering and scampering off.

Wednesday probably said something, some stupid remark he was a little too proud of, enough to laugh at it himself, but Joey didn't care to sort out the words. He was too busy listening to the people approaching the front door. Three? One, two...

"Somebody's coming."

Joey said, blankly, and six loud knocks followed while his voice was still in the air. Two, two, three... There were three here.

"Shit. Didn't think they'd be here this soon. Told 'em to hurry, though..."

That got his attention. 

"Who are they? Hurry?"

Wednesday was already headed to get the door, stopping were he stood to glance back at Joey. He looked guilty.

"Uh, the guys. Y'know, Acey, Ben, Eric.."

"What? When did you-- I'm not, this isn't--"

Joey's voice had dropped down to a whisper, but he was hushed regardless.

"Don't worry! Relax. They'll keep a secret. If it gets out, I'll let you-- I don't know, eat their brains or something."

He had already started to gear up to continue protesting when Wednesday rushed over and twisted the knob, immediately blocking what he cracked open and ducked his head out. Joey could still see Ben despite his efforts, so he shuffled back and hoped that he'd slip out of his line of sight.

Joey heard rubber soles on the concrete better than he could make out what Wednesday was saying, exactly. Something about wussing out and possibly getting freaked the fuck out. Acey's response was the clearest out of the three but remained just out of reach. Joey went to rub his eyes and stopped midway.

"Okay? Okay, I just don't-- okay. Alright, man."

Wednesday stepped back and Joey winced as orange light washed over him, but first he made solid eye contact with Eric. Oh, so he had purple in his hair. That was a nice color on him. He looked thinner. 

When he finished recoiling, he was little more than a blur booking it.

Ben groaned, dropped his arms, turned back, looked at Joey, sighed, turned back again, his dreads audibly hitting him in the face this time, and scrambled right after Eric out of view. Watching him run was always interesting, albeit a shortlived experience, he reminded him of one of those hunting dogs, somehow not tripping over their own boney legs despite obviously being too long for their body.

So, that left Acey. 

They watched each other cautiously, while Wednesday stood beside the door, visibly on edge. Joey wasn't quite sure why, Acey was never a violent guy. Maybe he was scared _for_ him.

"Holy shit."

"I know."

Acey took a few tentative steps forward and Joey didn't move, only now he came to realize that he was still sitting on the floor. He stayed where he was.

He could hear Ben making his way back, along with the muffled, panicked disagreement and occasional scraping of shoes on the ground, Joey assumed he'd managed to wrangle Eric. Either Acey didn't hear them or was just too shocked by being face to face with the undead to care.

"Holy fucking shit."

Acey repeated.

"Are you-- is, are you seriously..?"

Joey just nodded, already a bit bored. This was gonna get old remarkably fast.

"I don't know how else you'd be seeing me right now if I wasn't."

"Oh, god, can I?"

He'd come down to crouch in front of Joey, lifting his hand. Joey looked at him curiously, before meeting Wednesday's eyes behind him and getting a shrug in return. Helpful.

"Uh, go ahead. Just be careful, we're still trying to figure out what peels off and what doesn't..."

He was interrupted by Ben, who stumbled through the door rather ungracefully, holding Eric up with his elbows up under his arms. He was lifted high enough for the toes of his sneakers to barely skim the tile when he kicked and looked a little laughable, honestly.

"One of these fucking days, man, one of these fucking days you're gonna get your ass kicked for pulling that shit. You know how in horror flicks, shitty slashers, the one who runs always dies? And the one who hides lives! It's not gonna-- god damnit, if you're that much of a pussy you could've just hid behind me, I don't, oh, fuck. Wednesday, shut the door."

Ben eyed Joey in slight disbelief while Eric squirmed indignantly in his hold, fussing incoherently and refusing to look anywhere but at the floor. Wednesday didn't exactly rush to lock the door, notably interested in the others' reactions.

Acey had froze in place, chin to his shoulder as he shifted his gaze from Eric, to Ben, to Eric again, who was now digging what little nails he had into Ben's forearm. 

"You're just making this worse for yourself, dude."

Joey said bluntly. Eric still refused to look at him, but he reluctantly quit kicking and only hissed quietly when Ben grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head to the side as if he were scolding a child.

"Are gonna stop being a dickhead? Be decent and I'll put you down."

Eric muttered under his breath and earned himself a hard tug that made even Joey's scalp tingle. 

"What? Say that again?"

"I'm sorry! Jesus fucking Christ, I won't run, jeez, God,"

Joey pursed his lips in an attempt to stop himself from laughing, this wasn't funny, but he snorted regardless and got the most hateful, bewildered glare in return. 

Ben then let him go, still holding onto his shoulder in a hilarious, although petty display of distrust. Eric folded his arms over his chest bitterly, now shifting his sights to Wednesday while Acey returned his focus to Joey.

"Sorry."

He said softly, setting a heavy yet gentle hand to Joey's shoulder. Joey took this as an incentive to pull him into a loose hug, nearly toppling him onto his knees immediately.

"I love you man, I missed you. Whatever reason you're here for-- I'm glad. To have you, uh, back. With us."

Joey made a happy noise, pressing his face into the crook of Acey's neck and squeezing him just a bit before pulling away. The uncomfortable fragility had yet to fade, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get his ribs cracked so soon. Chances were that he wouldn't heal if he did, and broken bones were a slippery slope to, in his case, falling apart like wet paper mache. Probably. He couldn't take the risk.

"I-- wish I could say the same, but I was.."

Acey's eyes saddened.

"Dead."

Nevermind. The corners of his mouth tugged slightly as he leaned forward, suddenly very engaged.

"What's it like?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, is there an afterlife? Heaven, hell, you know? Did you feel your soul leave? Did it hurt? Did--"

"Acey, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Ben, what?"

Eric spoke up, changing collective focus to Ben, who had somehow managed to slip past them all and into the kitchen. He barely acknowledged them as he rooted through the fridge, pulling his hand back out with an open can of redbull hidden in his palm.

He shrugged, crossing his ankles as he leaned back against the countertop and took a slow sip.

"This isn't the weirdest thing I've seen this week, honestly. Might as well happen."

"What competes with fucking Joey coming back from the dead, exactly."

Wednesday said, half-hostile, not having moved from his place against the door. 

"You don't want to know. Hey, are you thirsty Joey?"

Ben pushed himself upright and slinked to the couch, where he slumped lazily over the back and returned Wednesday's irritated glare with a look that said _he_ was the crazy one. This was just a normal Tuesday for him, apparently.

"Not really,"

"We haven't given him anything to drink yet. We don't know what it would do to him."

Wednesday interrupted. Joey wasn't entirely sure why he was suddenly so defensive over him. He was the one who called them, after all. Maybe him and Ben had gotten into it while he was in the grave. 

Taking everyone into check as subtly as he could manage, they all looked a bit worse for wear. Acey had some of the worst dark circles he'd ever seen, Wednesday was very visibly staving off a hangover, Ben had an off-greyish tone to his face that only he himself rivaled, and Eric was shaking like a toy breed. 

Of course, it was Eric who he locked eyes with once again. He held true to his word and didn't run, but looked away immediately and hugged himself a little tighter. It didn't really hit Joey until now that he was scared of him. He swallowed spit that wasn't there.

The room had gone uncomfortably quiet, save for the endless hum of the air conditioner.

"Well, I might as well finish wrapping him up. Acey, the scissors are in the kitchen if you could... get them."

Wednesday walked past Eric and came back down to the floor beside Joey, not looking him in the eyes as he collected the roll of gauze that had been run down to maybe three or four more winds. 

He reached for Joey's wrist and took it, surprisingly gentle, as Acey stood and hurried off. He doubted he was scared of him, just trying to avoid pouring salt on the wound with any stalling. Joey returned his quizzical gaze to Wednesday in hopes to illicit some sort of a response. He was ignored, or maybe not even noticed.

Acey was back before he could finish his thought with a passive aggressive remark, holding the scissors as he ducked down. Wednesday didn't take them, just glanced for a moment before pulling the bandage taunt and pointing.

"Cut here so I have some slack to clip."

Acey cut just as he asked, but was simply dismissed by a slight nod and a look of sympathy from Joey. 

The longer the guys were around, the more convinced he was that his death had a much more resounding effect than he'd initially expected. To be fair, he hadn't expected anything. He was dead, he couldn't. 

He watched Wednesday feel around the rug for the clips he brought when they first sat down, plural, since he knew he'd lose at least one over however long it took them to wrap up both of Joey's hands and his overall fucked up lower left leg. 

"Joey, can you hold these for me?"

Wednesday was trying to hold both the scissors and his gauze in place with one hand as he tried to twist the hook to a decent position.

"Got it."

He did not have it.

They fell right out of his closed fist, or what he hoped to make a closed fist, where the working tendons in his hand decided _'hey, fuck that guy'_ and weakened entirely the second he curled his fingers. They hit the ground with a quiet metal clack. This might have been an issue, presented.

* * *

Unfortunately, Wednesday was too slow to catch the glass this time, just like the last two.

Joey had shattered the third one on accident, thanks to another muscle spasm that hurt on its own, getting glass half embedded in his good foot was just insult to injury. This one slipped out of his hand and went in every direction over the tile in less than a second.

"Starting to think you're just doing this on purpose now."

Eric said, begrudgingly picking the broom back up and moving to start sweeping the shards once again. Ben tried to hand him the dustpan, instead getting the blunt end of the stick jabbed at his ribs and bitter grumbling for a thank you.

"Man, do you have a thing against zombies? He doesn't mean it, you're just lucky he hasn't gone apeshit and eaten your brains yet."

Acey was sitting behind one of the table's legs, very intently attempting to strip the dye from a string of his hair with his nail as he spoke.

They'd been at this for a while now; standing around in the kitchen, just trying to teach Joey how to hold things without breaking them. Evidently, the task proved to be much harder than they anticipated. Wednesday went for the flask he'd left lying on the counter from the day prior, rubbing his face tiredly after taking a swig.

"I wouldn't call him a zombie."

Wednesday spoke up, sounding somewhat exasperated.

"Why? He looks the part, and he's undead, what else do you really need?"

"He just doesn't want to admit that he's been singing about wanting to fuck him his entire career,"

Ben said, deadpan, and that earned a barely restrained laugh from Eric as he swept around Joey. Joey rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop himself from smiling a little.

"I sing about wanting to bang zombies, _s-ss-s,_ plural. Not Joey."

"But as far as we know, Joey's the only one of his kind, right? And the whole _dead_ and _rotting_ and _reeking_ is what makes him just your type. There's no shame in wanting to fuck your best friend because they're the closest you're gonna get to your dream girl."

"Without going to prison, at least."

Acey added, not looking up.

 _"Hey,_ you only go to prison if they find out. If you know what you're doing, you'll get off scot-free."

Eric said as he made a reach for the dustpan, which Ben handed to him after a bit of prodding.

"You know, we can just use plastic, right? I have plastic cups. Not alot, but we won't run ourselves out after he drops one six times."

Wednesday said, visible annoyed and desperate to change the topic. He did have a point, despite being the one who started giving him glass in the first place.

"I don't see why not."

Joey shrugged, holding himself.

"Wait, I thought we were using the glass to like-- up the stakes? I've been sweeping all this up because you're stupid?"

Eric said as he walked to dump the pan in the trash, scanning over the four of them with mild contempt.

"You're so dramatic, man."

Ben pulled him close to his chest, craning his neck down and squeezing him tight. Joey thought it was cute, watching Eric knock him in the side of his head with his broomstick but Ben refusing to let up until he stopped resisting.

"... Well, moving onward, we're using plastic now."

"No fluids, I'm not cleaning up whatever Joey spills anymore."

That was in reference to the first cup, which they had the fantastic idea of filling with water, that might have lasted seven seconds tops. Despite not saying anything, the silent realization of their idiocy was astoundingly unified.

* * *

It must have been at least midnight by the time they all settled.

Acey had already headed home; some excuse about his cat that translated pretty easily into him just needing time to process the past few hours, not that Joey could blame him.

Eric had fallen asleep on the couch a good while ago, using Ben's campy skeletal jacket as a makeshift blanket and somehow positioned himself so that his head was between his knees, almost totally slumped onto the armrest. He wasn't entirely sure how that could be even remotely comfortable, but Joey had seen him pass out in enough strange contortions that it didn't come as much of a shock.

Joey was just about to go out to check on Wednesday, who had said he was going out on the back porch for a smoke an hour since, when Ben caught his attention. He flicked his fingers and motioned for Joey to come sit with him at the table where he'd first seen Wednesday. He obliged, curious. Curiosity killed the cat, curiosity killed the cat but it couldn't do jack shit if the cat came back for bloody revenge... Ben ogled him strangely and Joey acknowledged that this wasn't the time.

Dropping into the stool across from him, Ben reached for the booze Wednesday had left from earlier and frowned slightly when he noticed how little was actually left. He put it back down, before leaning in and propping his chin up in his hand.

"So. What's up with you and him?"

Joey said, the first one to speak up.

"Huh?"

"Wednesday, I mean. I thought he was gonna take his scissors and try to slit your throat with them. Did something happen between you guys?"

Ben huffed jokingly, shaking his head as if Joey had asked him something remarkably stupid.

"Nah, no, I don't think _I_ did anything at least. He always gets in his head about shit, internalizes it, but I know you know that. You've known him longer than me. I think he's just pissed I'm not-- I don't know, taking all of this as seriously as he is."

He paused to get his teeth under his nails before he continued to pick at them. Joey idly watched his nail polish flake onto his fingers.

"Not to say I'm not-- really fucking hurt when I found out you croaked. That sounds bad. When you died, y'know. I just don't show it in the same way he does and he doesn't really get it."

"Coping by smoking meth."

Ben snorted openly, dropping his head to hide his smile.

"The hell's wrong with you, man. You're the one who-- okay. I'll just filter that, that was horrible. Wednesday would probably get a step so he could slap me if I said that."

Well, now Joey was interested. He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in hopes Ben would go on without too much convincing. 

"If you said..?"

"Do you remember how you ended up dead? Like, uh.. at all? Postmortem amnesia or something?"

He shook his head. It had totally escaped him that, if he really had kicked the bucket, there had to have been an explanation as to how it happened. It's not like people just drop dead without a reason.

Joey watched him swallow tensely, suddenly very focused on scraping finish from the wooden table. He tapped his fingers impatiently and Ben cleared his throat.

"Um. Overdose. Nobody told us since we aren't immediate family, but we're pretty sure it was either coke or H. They found you shaking under the bathroom sinks at some punk bar and you were gone before the ambulance got there."

They both grew quiet. Once again, the only sound that made its way through the house was the air conditioner. Joey bit his tongue and Ben went back to scratching at the finish.

That might as well make sense. He didn't have any marks on his body that could imply violence, aside from his heel and he knew how he got that. Joey had always had the idea that the drugs _could_ kill him if he didn't take them in at least some form of moderation, which he thought he'd done, but apparently his idea of what moderate exactly was had come to warp so severely that it landed him six feet deep. Suppose, that as inevitable.

"I don't know how he can just pass out like that."

Joey was apparently not the only one who wanted to change the topic already.

Ben lifted his head fast and raised a brow, urging him on. He shook his hands out before folding them in his lap, presumably to stop himself from what looked like a nervous habit.

"Eric, dude,"

"Nothing stops the princess from getting her beauty sleep. See, man, when he was in high school, my mom fucking hated him. I still think she blames him for me turning out like this, which is-- stupid cause I'm way older than him, but that's not the point. He fell asleep on top of my dryer one time and I forget he was in there, until something like, two hours later when I heard her-- mom, I heard my mom _scream_ bloody murder,"

Ben flung an arm outward dramatically, shaking his hand again and Joey watched him subtly bounce. His knees knocked against Joey's repeatedly, until Ben drew up into himself and crouched in his seat.

It was a strange sight, a guy as gangly and over all just as big as Ben shouldn't be able to fold like that. He probably had to be pretty flexible, Joey had seen him successfully fit into the backseats of a car without taking up anyone else's room, you'd definitely need to be able to bend and maneuver to do that, and--

Joey zoned back in. Ben was still talking. He hadn't always been this chatty, there was no way.

"-- and then it came out that Ms. Palins was actually bringing roadkill meat for processing and for the kids to eventually eat, of course she got fired for that, but him and I never touched it cause I didn't trust her lazy eye and Eric just followed me like some lost little puppy, and-- oh, hey man. Joey thought you died."

Ben was turned to face past Joey, and after turning around in his stool, he noticed Wednesday. 

He was just coming through the back door, hands stuffed into his sweatshirt pockets as he returned Joey's gaze distantly. He looked oddly resigned, placid and pleased with the state of things. This... might as well happen. Ben definitely had it going on with that view.

Wednesday flicked his head to get his chem-dreads out of his eyes before he slowly made his way over, coming to a near halt as he passed Eric by. Joey could see the cogs in his head attempting to spin when he opened his mouth, only to give in and shut right back up when he approached the table.

"You gonna spend the night then..?"

He said as he stalled beside Joey, and he had to wonder for a moment if he was already being kicked out thanks to the indirection of Wednesday's tone, until he realized that he was looking at Ben. 

"Oh, uh- yeah man, if it's alright with you. I'll take the couch and maybe the floor if I get kicked off. You won't even know I'm here."

Wednesday mumbled something slurred and sweet before he unconsciously ran his fingers through Joey's hair. The motion shot a spike of fear up his spine but he didn't feel him accidentally pull anything out, thank fuck.

He nodded, drowsy, and Joey had already seen and most definitely smelled enough to know that he had spent his time out back drinking. He wasn't sure why Wednesday tried to hide it, even somewhat. He just felt bad for him and how he'd be tomorrow. Pushing back a hangover with more alcohol and less sleep never did any man good.

"Well... Joey, we should. Probably head off to bed. It's kinda late and you should at least try to... sleep..."

Wednesday tapped at his shoulder and he had to bite his cheek to stop himself from commenting on how obviously he needed it more, instead pitying him too much to protest as he stood and was used as something to balance with before he could even fix his posture. Joey held his hand where it was and Weds nodded appreciatively as he pulled towards the hall.

Joey glanced back over his shoulder to see Ben just watching them, his face a mixture of questionable sympathy and hilarity. He poked his tongue out and flipped him off.

Wednesday's house wasn't _big._ Sure, it was alot better than what the both of them spent their early twenties in, but it wasn't something to get lost in. It shouldn't have taken them the ten minutes it did to find his bedroom, and it wouldn't have if Joey didn't need to redirect Wednesday every few feet or so. They got there though, eventually.

The lights were off; all Joey could see was thanks to the yellow-casting lamp in the hallways behind them. Horror movies scattered beside the box TV in the corner, an improperly framed Misfits poster beside the coats, old Halloween decorations and dusty casts of skulls, nothing had changed in the slightest since he was last here. He could probably navigate his way to the bed without turning anything on.

"You can take it,"

Wednesday murmured, both of his hands having traveled down to one of Joey's forearms. He trailed right behind him like some shy, very tall child, nudging the back of his head with his.

"Take what?"

Joey said, almost humoring him.

"-- The bed... you can sleep in the bed, I'll take the floor..."

"Oh, Wednesday,"

"No, 'm serious. It's your first night back on earth, _alien boy-yy,_ I don't know, you should have it. I sleep here every-- almost every night. You should have it."

Joey rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure whether this was him being piss drunk or just sleep deprived, but he didn't see much of a point in arguing with him over it. If he complained about his neck hurting tomorrow along with everything else, Joey could just repeat what he said himself and maybe hold his hair up for him when he eventually started puking.

"Alright, alright, come on then."

Joey turned to face him and Wednesday jerked, still holding onto his arm before Jo grasped his wrist, gauging his lack of a reaction as he pulled him in. They both staggered this time, Joey tripping over his fucked up heel and Weds lacking the autonomy to hold himself upright without support. A short fit of hushed laughter broke between them, hands on shoulders and hips against hips.

It was sweet, enough so Joey could even ignore the sense flooding stench of whiskey on Wednesday's heavy breath long enough to get himself on the bed. Weds came down to slump loosely between his knees, sitting with his legs tangled on the floor.

"You know I can't sleep sitting up."

"Yeah, 'know. I love you so much."

Joey dropped his head and sighed, well aware that Wednesday couldn't see him. He just pet him instead of responding right away, feeling him lean into his hand, affectionate and warm. It was going to rain soon. He could smell it. Wednesday rested his chin on Joey's thigh and put his hand on his knee.

"I love you too, man, you're my--"

Wednesday cut him off, mumbling gibberish.

"Nuh, no, you don't get it. I really, really love you. You're great, fuckin', fuckin' outer space, I love you. I can't believe I have you here. You were gone and it was forever-- _for-ever_ too fucking long without you, and you're-- talking to me! You're really here and I love you so much, more than anything else. I didn't know how long I could last without you. You're... uh--h'm sorry. I love'you, now give me a blanket."

His voice came out significantly louder than either of them had expected compared to the sleepover-esque whispers from moments ago. It made Joey jump a bit, enough to make the hair on the back of his neck raise.

Joey had initially gone to reach back and feel for a throw like Wednesday had asked, but stopped himself. He might have been more than tipsy, sure, but he knew he still meant what he said. _Drunk words are sober words,_ no, _drunk words are sober thoughts._ That was it. Joey could probably pretend to forget this tomorrow if Wednesday told him to, but he'd let it hang around in the back of his head. For a little while, at least.

 _"C'mo-on,_ I'm cold.."

Joey just shook his head, curling over himself uncomfortably to get his arms around his shoulders and his forehead to Wednesday's. He choked a little, reaching up to hold Joey's arm.

"God what the fuck-- you're cold, nev-vv'r--"

He was immediately hushed.

"Shh shhh, shut up shut up. I love you too, alright? That's the end of it 'cause I really mean it, dude. You didn't have to take me in or whatever, I was lucky to find you the first time and even luckier this time. You mean so much to me. I'd kiss you if I didn't think you're on the brink of puking all over me right now."

It took Wednesday a moment to relax and getting flicked on the ear twice to stop him from talking, eventually leaning into him with a weighted sigh and a weak, but happy hum.

They managed to slide into an effortless but somehow less awkward half-embrace, with Joey partially cradling his head against his shoulder and neck as he soothed a hand over his back, Wednesday just going limp and letting him do whatever he wanted. He'd done this for Joey before, no better time to return the favor.

"Alright. Are you sure you don't want to sleep up here? I can share, you know."

Wednesday droned incoherently when Joey pulled away to get his blanket, having to let go of him for a moment to feel around and find something that wasn't a part of the sheets. He had let his hand slip down to rest at Joey's ankle, he hoped, he couldn't see anything in here. Could've been one of the bodies he always hides under his bed coming back for revenge. Joey chuckled to himself, before dropped what felt like a quilt in Wednesday's lap.

"Yeah... I'll sleep down 'ere. I love you."

Joey lifted his legs up gingerly, not wanting to accidentally kick Weds as he readjusted to lie down.

"You've already said that, Wednesday. I know."

"But it's true!"

From where Joey was, it sounded like Wednesday was still sitting up. He nudged him in the chest with his good heel.

"Uh-huh, now lay down before I come down there and make you. I'll smother you, wench."

That seemed to send him into a little bout of raspy giggles, but he felt him reluctantly oblige and hit the ground with a faint thump. Joey pulled his leg back, crawled up to the pillows, before nesting his way down to his shoulders underneath the comforter. 

He could try to fall asleep, sure, to make Wednesday happy. But there was no guarantee he'd be able to. Maybe that was a death thing.

Once you come back, you can't have any more taste tests of it.

Taste tests of death, sleep didn't feel like death. Death felt like sleep though. Drowning in it, overwhelming, felt like choking on honey. That was a stupid analogy, his lungs just burned when he was dead.

Dead, death, graves, cemeteries, afterlife...

It took two minutes, max, before his mind went black and he was out.


End file.
